The Pediatric ICU was a gallery of soft lighting and hushed alarms, a sharp contrast to the visceral carnage of the ER. Alex Karev stood over a seven-year-old boy whose skin was blossoming with strange, hardened nodules that defied standard antibiotics.
Christopher walked in, his white coat impeccable. He already knew the pathology: Sporotrichosis, a rare fungal infection usually contracted from sphagnum moss. In the original canon, this case would confound the department for three days.
"He's febrile, 103.4. The biopsy came back inconclusive for staph or strep," Alex muttered, his bravado replaced by a genuine, frustrated concern. "I'm thinking autoimmune."
Christopher didn't answer immediately. He leaned over the bed, his surgical loupes flipped down. He needed to tamp down the Oracle rumors, and that meant showing the work.
"Autoimmune is a lazy diagnosis for people who don't like microbiology, Karev," Christopher drawled, his sarcasm returning like a warm tide. "Go to the hospital library. Pull the last five years of the Journal of Pediatric Infectious Diseases. Look up rare mycoses in the Pacific Northwest. Specifically, agricultural exposures."
"I don't have time for literary research!" Alex snapped.
"Then you don't have time to save this kid's leg," Christopher replied, his voice dropping into a low, lethal hum. "I'll be in the labs. I'm going to culture the drainage myself. If I'm right, the pathway isn't cellular; it's botanical."
Christopher spent the next hour in the pathology lab, hunched over a Leica microscope. He knew exactly what he was looking for—the cigar-shaped yeast cells. He made sure the technician saw him cross-referencing archived case files. He was building a paper trail of logic to hide the foreknowledge.
When Alex returned, sweaty and irritated, Christopher held up a Gram stain.
"It's Sporotrichosis. Likely from the potting soil his parents used for their new rose garden," Christopher said, his sarcastic drawl echoing off the tiled walls. "Get him on Itraconazole and potassium iodide. And Karev? Next time, read the footnotes. That's where the miracles are hidden."
Alex looked at the slide, then at Christopher. The suspicion in his eyes was muted by begrudging respect. Christopher hadn't guessed; he'd researched. The "Oracle" had a textbook in his hand.
Christopher walked out of the hospital, the Seattle rain washing away the scent of antiseptic. He had saved the kid and stabilized his cover.
He pulled out his phone as he reached the valet stand. "The Gourd case is closed. I showed my work like a good student. I'm coming home to the brownstone now. - C"
He watched the lights of Seattle Grace disappear in the rearview mirror. He was winning. But he knew the Sloane arrival was just days away. And Mark Sloan was a variable that didn't play by the rules.